


7am Confessions (Remastered); Alternatively: Grief Spun Memories

by Fangs17



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Dreamscapes, Love Confessions, Post-Reichenbach, Things left unsaid, sensation versus perception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 08:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangs17/pseuds/Fangs17
Summary: He could create a symphony from the sound each slender bone produces under his fingers, but it didn't seem important anymore. Nothing much did these days.





	7am Confessions (Remastered); Alternatively: Grief Spun Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-working of an early piece I posted (see: 7am Confessions)

Time is all wrong, or maybe it’s just my perception of time that is wrong. My instincts are telling me it should be morning and I should be in bed with her, but the light is somehow too soft and too knowing (the light of early evening) and my surroundings are too unforgiving to be a bed. He is above me, further dimming the light. She isn’t as tall as he was, I do remember that. The smell of tea and old books is in the air, which should be wrong somehow. But for some reason, it feels so right. 

My lungs are crying out for air, practically screaming, yet I can’t break contact. Single thoughts flash across my consciousness, much like those rolling bands of text at the bottom of Times Square billboards.  _ This position must be awfully uncomfortable for him… I should pull away…  _ **_Damn_ ** _ , this is nice…  _ before sliding away into nothingness. 

The source of my discomfort, if you could call it that, is currently hovering with a scant inch separating us. One of his hands is on the back of the couch, next to my shoulder. I can feel his exposed wrist as is brushes against my skin. He is clenching and unclenching his fingers at regular intervals, if the groaning of the leather is any indication. His other hand has made its way to my jean-clad thigh quite boldly. A palm rests against the top of my thigh and long fingers drape down the outside of my leg. I wonder if those fingers are long enough to brush the couch under me… 

One of my legs is pressed into the back of the couch, folded at the knee and partially pinned in place by his body. The elbow that had been resting there, aiding my hand in propping up my head as I read my book, has slid forward allowing my fingers to card through soft, black curls. He has to use product, even if he says he doesn’t… 

It all feels natural. It feels like coming home. 

There is no air left in my lungs, yet I can’t back away. I had started counting the seconds but got lost somewhere right before fifteen. My lower back is pressed against the armrest of the couch with no room for negotiation. The ring finger on my left hand catches in a snag between curls, a snag that my ministrations no doubt put there. My tongue swipes at his bottom lip, making him gasp long enough to draw in much-needed oxygen, although my unfocused elation at not suffocating is short lived. 

I can feel his tongue brushing against my bottom lip in a slightly more aggressive mirror of my action. For a moment, I try to play coy, but he quickly overtakes my half-hearted resistance. As his tongue--burning hot, oh god how I’ve gotten him worked up--presses up against my own, a rumble emanates from somewhere south of where I was taught the human vocal cords should be. He switches tactics, attacking the soft spot on the underside of my jaw, and a chuckle bubbles up from my throat. The weight of his presence forces my body to slide down the leather. He’s definitely done this before… 

I had heard the “It was for a case” lie about the most random and  _ human _ things, but the conducting of hearts isn't a skill you decide to pick up for fun on a Tuesday afternoon. The hand of mine that has remained idle on his hip starts a slow journey north to the waistband of his dark, pressed pants. He shifts ever so slightly above me. My fingertips graze the skin stretched thin over a hip bone. Was he really as thin as I remember… 

I can barely hear the gasp, but I can fully feel his entire body respond to that simple touch. My hand continues a northern path under his shirt, to stop on a flexed shoulder blade. As his teeth graze my throat in open-mouthed kisses, my nails rake down his side. I could create a symphony from the sound each slender bone produces under my fingers. I watch the wave of goosebumps erupt on the arm that is stretched out above me. When did he move his arm from the back of the couch to the armrest… 

It didn't seem important anymore. But nothing much did these days. 

His forehead comes to rest against mine, eyes fluttering closed and body coming down to lay on mine. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this affected: cockily smirking expression shattered, muscles trembling, heartbeat strong enough that I can feel it pounding against my own. There’s a slight tremble in his movements from the flood of adrenaline as he lowers his hand to my chest, the band of metal feels hot even through my shirt. It’s truly a sight to behold. And to know that I did  _ that _ with a kiss and a few simple touches amazes me. But then again, the human body is a wonderfully responsive instrument if you know the order in which to vibrate the strings. 

Scrunching my nose up, I lightly bat mine against his. A gorgeous rumble echoes from his chest, bright eyes gradually open, and smirk sliding back into place.  _ Oh the things you do to me, my Doctor Watson.  _

White teeth fade into the white of the ceiling. The soft lighting of evening shifts to the brighter rays of early morning. 

_ But I believe it’s time for you to wake up now.  _

The unforgiving leather under my shoulder blades softens to cloth, the length of the couch shortening until my feet touch the end. 

_ Again tonight?  _

The sharp angles and hard lines blur into rounder features and softer cheekbones. 

_ Dinner? _

Black curls fade into the shadow of my blonde wife standing before me in the living room. The only things that haven’t changed are that damned smirk and the book that has fallen to the floor.  

 

"Starving." 


End file.
